


Pandora's Box

by janrea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark and disturbing behavior and thoughts, M/M, Obsessive Behaviour, One-Sided Relationship, Possessive Behavior, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:57:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janrea/pseuds/janrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Moriarty had known John long before Sherlock, and was infatuated with him for the same amount of time. He's interested in Sherlock, but it's only after he saw Sherlock with John that things started to get personal. Sorta-AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, this is a dark fic. Like, warnings for insight in Moriarty's brain which include general creepiness and very very obsessive behaviour and thoughts. Got a few scenes of pretty descriptive violence. And also, very unrequited on the Jim/John relationship. This is NOT a relationship that ends well here.
> 
> This fic was originally posted on FFNet, and I've cleaned it up again for posting here. C;

The first time Jim Moriarty had the thought of violence, he was fourteen years old. It wasn't to say that he hadn't ever thought about inflicting pain before, but they were minor thoughts. Just stray plans in his head that formed quicker than he could stop them when he didn't get things the way he wanted. Plans that were never carried through, with emotions that had only ever been shown through acts of terrorizing his household staff and destroying the things in his room.

 

But he had never had the idea of hurting someone before. Really hurting someone--wanting to make them bleed, cry, and beg for sympathy which they don't deserve and would never get. He had never entertained the thought of just wrapping his hands around a person's neck and just squeeze and squeeze, until he could no longer feel the throbbing of veins and arteries beneath the person's skin, gaining pleasure from the process of watching life slipping away so justifiably beneath his fingers, and having pride in knowing that there will no longer be the rhythm of a thumping heart beneath skin and bones.

 

No, Jim had never had these thought before.

 

But the first time he had them, the thrill and hatred coursed through his veins so swiftly that it made him feel both heated and ice-cold at the same time. It was addictive, and for just one, small moment, Jim felt like he could do anything, could _break_ anything through the sheer strength of willpower, intelligence and burning feelings alone. Jim never forgot that emotion, and would never stop relishing in feeling it again, and again, and again.

 

To Jim, it was the moment that he found his true calling.

 

Ironically enough, it was also the first moment that he met John Watson.

 

He never could quite remember the details of that day, which was an anomaly, seeing that he could remember practically everything from his childhood. From the way his father's jaws tightened in disapproval, to how his mother always looked at him with vacant eyes, as if he wasn't even there. He remembered how the children in his class shunned him, jeering at his tailored shirt and pants, and how they threw insults at his back, not even bothering to hide their stares and whispers. They said that he's the odd one, a freak, a rich snobby kid, and reminded him just how much he didn't belong.

 

He used to mind those things that were said about him, when he was still young and without knowledge of just how much his brain and money could do. He would feel hurt, depressed, and just slightly vindictive and hateful against those people who made his everyday life a living hell.

 

But he never acted on those urges. He never dared. He still thought himself to be weaker and incapable of doing any retaliation at that time.

 

He knew better though, after that day.

 

What he did remember, were snatches of memories.

 

...Him, completing his first advanced calculus question.

 

...The empty smile that his mother gave him when he told her about it.

 

...The crispness of the air, as he snuck out of the void which could be called a home.

 

...Making his way to the park, the sound of leaves rustled by the wind giving him a false sense of peace.

 

...Bumping into them.

 

Then came the taunts, the insults, the pushing and punching. The words were all a blur; he supposed he must have tuned them out at some point.

 

However, he would never forget the sharp shout that sounded, the way they were pushed off him, the feeling of _security_ at being held back behind a larger, taller form...

 

...And the way his heart literally skipped a beat for the first time when those blue eyes met with his.

 

Jim remembered, the way those eyes flashed--full of anger, defiance and yet so steady and strong--and it was the most gorgeous thing that he had ever seen. He felt the most peculiar shiver running down his spine, and it was singularly the most intriguing and disorienting sensation that he had ever felt.

 

He had never seen the boy around before. Sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, older than him--possibly fifteen or sixteen--and wearing a striped jumper that should have looked ridiculous but didn't on the boy's body.

 

He must have missed something, too caught up in his observations, and the next moment, _they_ were leaving, with looks of contempt and displeasure evident on their faces.

 

The boy turned, and the smile that was directed at him stunned him for a moment. He had never had someone smiled at him like that before, and years later, he would still be learning how to smile the exact way, but it never worked, and seemed to unnerved his enemies even more.

 

John Watson, the boy had said, his hand extended as he waited for Jim to take it. His smile was contagious, and his presence soothing, as Jim found himself smiling back (a genuine smile, and he didn't know that his facial muscles were capable of producing such a thing) and reaching out to shake John's hand.

 

There was only one thought in his head.

 

_John Watson. John Watson. John Watson._

 

What a glorious name.

 

"Hi, I'm Jim Mo-"

 

It was cut short, as John's eyes suddenly widened and he slumped forward. Jim reached out for him, and the sight before him made him see red.

 

 _Their_ leader was standing behind John, a thick branch in his hand, looking smug as he stared down at Jim and an unconscious John.

 

His mouth opened, but Jim didn't register what was said. The palm he used to touch John's head came up smeared with blood, and Jim could still remember the way his whole body had shifted, as if it was trying to accommodate the sudden fury and hatred bubbling up from the pits of his stomach.

 

There was only one thought in his head.

 

_They hurt John. They hurt MY John._

 

He had lunged before he knew it. He never did remembered what he did or how he did it, but he remembered the other things, things that would forever be ingrained inside of him, things that he would never forget about.

 

The way how easily a neck could be snapped as long as you remembered which place to twist it. The lovely sound of a skull cracking against pavement. The warm feeling of blood--on his hands, his arms, his feet--that made him thirsting for more. The jubilant and exhilarating high of hearing a worthless scum pleading for his life. Voices, so full of terror, shrieking like pigs about to be slaughtered, and it was like fireworks, captivating and glorious.

 

The way his heart just went crazy as he used his pocketknife to stab into flesh--again, and again, and again. The thumping of blood coursing through his veins, his arteries, beneath his skin and flesh, and he had never felt so alive before.

 

It was utterly addictive.

 

Standing above the bloody, lifeless and disfigured bodies on the gravel, with his shirt torn, lip bleeding, eyes swollen, and possibly injured in several places; he had clutched the knife in one hand, and the branch in the other, blood dripping from both--whether his or _theirs_ , it's already mingled beyond distinction, all the same shade of red.

 

Then he laughed, long and hard, and the sound was the most melodious music as it rang through the darkened evening sky.

 

He had continued laughing, even when his nanny found him in the park, clutching John's unconscious form, a figure painted of blood, violence and terror. The nanny adored him, and was impossibly loyal to the family. She had simply wrapped Jim up in her coat, and sent them back to the mansion with the car she came in.

 

John was pried away from his arms the moment he stepped through the door. He had growled, spat and fought like an animal, but he was no match for the bodyguards holding him down. The last glimpse of blood-matted sandy blond hair was seen as their private doctor picked John up and brought him off.

 

Jim was later told that everything with John was fixed, and that John was sent back home safely. He had wanted to go and find John, something in his heart and mind just wanting and needing so much to see him again, but every attempt was thwarted as he was kept under even stricter surveillance.

 

Jim didn't know what his father did, but when the news reported of the gruesome murder of four teenagers in the park, the police never found any evidence or eye witnesses that could lead them to the killer.

 

His parents had moved then, and that was that.

 

It was not for another nine years before he saw John Watson again.

 

\-------------------------------------------- 

 

As he grew older, Jim's thirst and craving for violence and terror did not subside. But the feeling of inflicting pain himself was getting more and more boring. Eventually, Jim began to realize that he much more preferred to be planning out crimes, rather than carrying them out.

 

He planned a bank heist when he was sixteen, and told it to a bunch of men in a run-down pub just for the fun of it. Following his plan, the same group of men managed to pull of the same heist and got away with half a million pounds from the local bank. They were never caught.

 

A week later, he met an inebriated housewife in the same bar, vengeful and heartbroken that her husband had cheated on her. Three days later, George Douglas was found dead in an alley. The police suspected that it was a case of robbery gone wrong, and again, the killer was never found.

 

When he was eighteen, his parents died, very much conveniently in an accident on their way to a charity ball, and Jim inherited every single penny of his family's massive fortune.

 

With the amount of money he had, and the already impressive connection with the underworld at such a young age, it wasn't difficult to set up his own network.

 

By twenty one, he was a formidable figure. His competitors were being ruthlessly swept out one by one, and those who weren't, were rapidly taken in under his command.

 

Amidst all this, there wasn't a day where he didn't thought about the teenage boy who had so bravely stood out and protected him. There wasn't a day where he didn't thought about John Watson.

 

It was when he was twenty three, already secured in his position, and much, much more powerful than anyone could ever imagined, that Jim started his search for John.

 

It was easy. Jim's web was wide and intrinsic, and there weren't many John Watsons that used to stay at his childhood hometown.

 

He took in the information like a parched man lost in the desert who had just found water. He searched for everything he could, from the record of John winning a 100 meter dash in his high school days, to names of the people who got into a fight with John in a bar.

 

Of course, he had them all tortured and murdered as soon as he learnt that they had put John into the hospital for a week. The police were in a right state during that time, thinking that it was the work of a serial killer.

 

He knew that John's older than him by two years, and that he was studying in St. Bart's to be a doctor. He knew where he lived in London, and the thrill at the thought--that they were so near, living in the same city--had Jim contemplating more than once to seek John out. And it would be _easy_ to make it like a chance encounter, because he knew all the pubs and restaurants that John loved to go to, all the places that he went when he was free.

 

But he refrained, wanting to seek out the most special moment. He was old enough now, to recognize the feelings that he had for John Watson was more complex than childhood adoration. In fact, it ran deeper than lust, darker than love even. He not only wanted the man--and oh, how he wanted, after seeing what John had grown to become--he also needed John. He needed him with the burning intensity of a thousand suns, probably much more than that. He needed him in his life--his gentle smile, those strong blue eyes constantly looking at him, the presence of the man himself--he needed all of it. All of John.

 

He would never settle for less. It's like an ever growing obsession, a constant urge to possess and thoroughly _own_ John Watson. To claim him as Jim's possession. He wanted, to the extent that anyone who sees John will immediately see Jim's imprint on him as well.

 

There were times when the desire got to be too strong. Instances where he just wanted to kidnap John, regardless of the consequences, and chain him by his side. But then there would be times where all he wanted to do was hold the man tight in his arms, fingers running through blond hair, so he could finally find out if John's hair was as soft as he imagined in his fantasies.

 

But it's this polarity of his thoughts, the extremity of it, that actually held him back.

 

He couldn't afford to lose John. Couldn't even bear the thought of scaring John away.

 

So he waited. He waited, until John turned twenty eight, and yet he was still searching for the perfect moment.

 

But he didn't know then, that this single decision would change both their fates yet again.

 

Because John was deployed to Afghanistan. Because he went and join the army, to be an army doctor, and despite his reach, Jim had no power to change that fact.

 

For the first time in many years, Jim killed a man with his own hands. It's one of the men that he had trailing John daily, one of those men who failed to inform him that John had went and enrolled himself in military, and he just locked himself and the man into a room and lashed out. He only had a knife, and the man was a trained bodyguard that towered over him with both hands free. Yet Jim killed him in the end, both his bare hands dripping with blood, squeezed tightly around the man's neck, the man's body and face slashed beyond recognition.

 

The months following John's leave were one of the darkest times in London. Crime rates rose to nearly triple of the usual amount and even overseas countries saw a significant increase in underground movement.

 

It was eight years before he saw John again.

 

\-------------------------------------------------- 

 

Coincidentally, it was in the third year since John left that Jim knew of Sherlock Holmes for the first time.

 

He had thrown himself into his job after John left, pursuing and advancing it with such a degree of ferocity, ruthlessness and determination that he looked like a man possessed. He wanted more power--no-- _needed_ more power.

 

He didn't ever want to realize that there were yet some things in the world that he couldn't change. He didn't ever want to lose John again. To make sure of that, he required all the power he could get in the world.

 

His influence had extended until the whole of Europe, and even parts of Asia, and Jim knew that it won't be long before he could preside over the whole world as the lord of crime.

 

When that happened, he would make sure that no one ever harmed John Watson.

 

In the third year of John's absence, Jim received the news. He might be powerless to stop John from leaving, but he had spies everywhere, even in the military, and he knew John's exact location every single time.

 

The news stated that the area John was currently in had been bombed, and there were no news on the survival of the army in that area.

 

Jim went berserk.

 

He started a mass murdering spree in London, provoking and cajoling every criminal around the area to wreak havoc. Because if John isn't alive, if he died as a soldier serving his country, then Jim would damn well make sure that this country _pay_ for John's sacrifice. He would bring chaos to England, and he would never stop, because revenge for John would be everlasting.

 

Jim, in that period, danced around London like Lucifer himself reincarnated, bringing fear and terror with just the slightest involvement. He danced around in shadows, owning London's day and night, spreading his influence faster and fiercer than a bushfire.

 

Anyone who dared opposed him, anyone who dared thought him mad and incapable, were swiftly struck down. He handled those with a personal touch, making bombs and synthesizing poison of his own variety so that he could experience the thrill of killing. It was only through killing that he could feel alive again. With no news of John's survival, Jim felt as if he died along with the man, and the feeling of despair and numbness was just too much agony to endure.

 

It was only when he knew that John was alive that Jim stopped.

 

The day he was elated that John was alive was also the day that Jim first heard of Sherlock Holmes.

 

A supposed consultant for the police force, and when Sherlock solved one of the cases Jim orchestrated, Jim knew that Sherlock was different from the others.

 

He also knew that he had lost control, and that was the only reason that Sherlock could so easily solve the crime, because he hadn't been careful. However, he also knew that there was no way any crime could be traced back to him, as he wasn't the one to commit them.

 

It was exciting though, to know that there was someone out there who could actually match up to his own brand of brilliance, and Jim decided that it would be fascinating to keep on playing with Sherlock.

 

Sherlock was very much different from John.

 

While Jim was also obsessed with the consulting detective, it was only because Sherlock was so similar to Jim, and yet so completely different at the same time. It was a shiver of excitement that he had never felt before, a thrill of finally, finally having someone who could match him equally on every single level of the game, and yet not failing to deliver and giving a smashing performance at the same time. It was exhilarating, Jim had never had a supposed playmate before, and he relished this sudden addition to his life.

 

John, however, was so much more than Sherlock.

 

While Sherlock could match him step by step, Jim knew that it was only John that could actually merge with him. The only one who could actually _complete_ him. He and Sherlock were just too similar to be compatible, and John was the only person who could do that, the only person whom could truly be with Jim, and whom Jim could truly be with.

 

John might not know it yet though, but Jim was determined to make it so.

 

Because Jim knew that John belonged with him, and he was never wrong.

 

Before Jim could finally be content with John by his side he thought Sherlock an adequate substitute for his attention, and he continued to specially plot out crimes that would intrigue Sherlock enough for him to take it.

 

And for five years, Jim played with Sherlock, never revealing that he was the one behind all those crimes, and Sherlock never knew that he was being played. It was frankly, a fulfilling pastime, and Jim knew that Sherlock would never be able to catch him, or even know about him, because Jim had no intention of revealing himself.

 

But then, Jim saw John together with Sherlock.

 

And he changed his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Moriarty has known John long before Sherlock, and had been infatuated with him for the same amount of time. He's interested in Sherlock, but it's only after he sees Sherlock with John that things starts to get personal. Sorta-AU.

When news of John getting shot in Afghanistan reached him, Jim had been thinking about his puzzle for Sherlock to solve. It had been a few months since he set this new game in motion, and it appeared that Sherlock hadn't caught on to it yet. Jim was in a good mood, feeling smug at his own brilliance to be able to come out with something as intricate as manipulating a dying cabbie to go on a killing spree and also to mask those killings as suicides. But it would be no fun if Sherlock didn't participate in the game, and Jim wondered if he should create a new one, or lead Sherlock to some other insignificant plans that he already had in motion.

 

The man who had delivered the news trembled all the while under his piercing stare, and the rage that bubbled to the surface was almost too much to bear.

 

Before the man even had a moment to stammer out his apologies, Jim had his gun out, and the man was on the floor.

 

~*~

 

Moran heard the shots before he stepped in, shaking his head as he saw the dead man. Blood was already pooling around the carpet, soaking them to an almost calming shade of deep red.

 

Normally, Jim would be mesmerized by the sight of death in front of him, but not this time. His knuckles were white as they gripped the edge of his table, and he was barely able to keep his voice calm as he asked: "How's John?"

 

Moran gave him a hard stare. "You really should stop killing people who bring you news about John Watson, Moriarty. Nobody wants to do it anymore."

 

A glare from Jim was enough for him to hold his tongue. Moran might be an ex-mercenary, but he wasn't stupid. Moran knew that Jim could have him dead by the next moment if he wanted to. And Moran had been with him long enough to know that John would always be Jim's main priority.

 

"He's alive. The medics managed to pull the bullet out from his shoulder, a few centimetres more, and he would be dead though." Moran said, knowing that Jim would want to know everything about John, even though sometimes the man didn't liked what he heard.

 

Jim nodded, but Moran could see that he was wind up tighter than a clock by the set of his jaw and the almost hard look on his face. That was the look he had before Jim just snapped and started his killing spree a few years ago when he thought John was dead in a bombing, and Moran knew that he had to stop Jim from getting into that homicidal mode.

 

The last time really hadn't been pretty. And that was coming from Moran.

 

"He's coming back." He said quickly.

 

That did it. Jim's gaze snapped immediately to him, and Moran was half-relieved to see that the cold and empty look in them was gone.

 

"He's coming back to London. His wounds won't allow him to be in service any longer, I believe he will be back by next week."

 

Almost instantaneously, Jim's face broke out into a huge grin, and Moran had to suppress the urge to shudder at the almost maniacally glee and excitement in Jim's expression. The softness in his eyes that had appeared at the prospect of John Watson returning chilled Moran, because instead of making him almost human, it actually brought out the possessive gleam in Jim's eyes, and Moran had for many years witnessed firsthand just how obsessive Jim was with the man.

 

In that moment, Moran almost felt something akin to sympathy for Watson.

 

The man would never be able to escape Jim Moriarty's clutches, and he didn't even know it.

 

~*~ 

 

Jim had never felt so _alive_.

 

Finally, finally, John was coming home, coming back to London where Jim could reach him, and see him, and may even be able to touch him.

 

Jim was determined to keep him this time. He had learnt his lesson the last time, and he didn't want to lose John again.

 

John belonged with him, always.

 

Jim would make sure of it.

 

~*~

 

The first week of John's return back to London, Jim spent almost every moment of his time following the man around London.

 

John Watson seemed more subdued now, compared to Jim's last image of him, and carried himself like a man who had lost all hope in the world. He looked worn down, and seemed to have lost the sparkle that was once in his eyes.

 

Jim loved it.

 

The more damaged John was, the easier it would be for Jim to manipulate John over to his side. Jim looked forward to caring for John, and to helping John in regaining hope and purpose in life. And when that sparkle of life returned to John, it would be all his. All Jim's doing.

 

It would be glorious, to be able to achieve such a thing. To be able to affect and have control over John in such a manner would be so perfectly wonderful, that the mere thought itself was addicting and exhilarating.

 

Jim wanted, oh how he wanted, that in the future, every smile, every laughter, every frown, every action, every thought, every decision--just every aspect of John, would be there only because of Jim, to be there only just for Jim.

 

Jim wanted John to exist for him, so much so that John would be unable to live without Jim.

 

He wanted John to feel him on his skin, in his blood, flesh, and bone; and to occupy and just lay claim to all of John's mind, heart and soul. Wanted John to be so full of Jim, that without Jim, John will die, not from death, but from the lack of _Jim_.

 

It will happen.

 

And when it does, it will be the greatest conquer that Jim's ever done.

 

Jim planned, but for all he planned for, he didn't planned on John meeting Sherlock.

 

~*~ 

 

When he heard that John had moved away from his flat, Jim was furious. He only learnt about it a week later, as he was too busy sorting out a drug deal gone wrong in Hong Kong. He had to fly over to sort out the mess personally, and was livid that the Hong Kong's supposedly famed mafia was so utterly incompetent.

 

And apparently, in that small space of time that he had been absent from London, everything had gone to hell. Normally, he would have left Moran to handle things, but since there was another sticky situation in Ukraine, Jim had him go over there to take care of things instead. If Moran had been in control, he would have known to keep a closer eye on John and also to keep Jim up to date on everything about John.

 

But Moran was away, killing off his rival, and the imbecile which took care of things actually neglected John, and failed to tell Jim that John had not only met Sherlock Holmes, but also had moved in with the man.

 

Jim wanted to kill after he heard it. So he did.

 

He had Moran punish the man. He was strapped to a chair and gagged, unable to do anything as he watched his wife, children, and parents tortured and torn apart limb by limb. And at the very end, Moran made the man kill off his own parents if he wanted his children to live, and after the man did so, all the while sobbing and pleading for forgiveness, Moran killed his wife and children, before leaving a gun as he left the room. The man killed himself mere seconds after, and all the while, Jim watched everything from the screen of his laptop via the camera, rejoicing with every scream and apparent despair.

 

His bloodlust for revenge was quenched by then, and his fury was down to a more manageable level, when he found out that Sherlock Holmes had actually solved the cabbie case. While this would normally please Jim, as it meant that there would be another new game to play with Sherlock, it filled him with an irrational irritation at the man this time. When he found out that John had actually killed the cabbie just to save Sherlock's life, Jim was beyond himself.

 

Intense loathing coiled up in the pits of his stomach, like a poisonous viper, tensed and waiting to strike. Sheer hatred fuelled into his fury, turning it into barely suppressible rage.

 

He couldn't bear the thought of John--his sweet, good and utterly decent John--actually killing to protect someone that wasn't Jim. Someone that was apparently Sherlock Holmes.

 

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Jim still vividly remembered the protective stance of John in front of him, still savoured the feeling of security again and again deep in his dreams and memories, when the night was cold and the sudden strike of loneliness almost too much to bear, it was the feeling of home and safety and John that brought him through. John was supposed to be Jim's salvation, to be Jim's _everything_ , he was supposed to kill _for_ Jim, to kill only because of Jim, and it was his darkest, wildest, most desired fantasy from John.

 

To think that Sherlock could do nothing, and still obtain it--John Watson's total devotion, care and protectiveness, along with John's utterly seductive ruthlessness and violence--so swiftly and effortlessly, and it all belonged to Sherlock.

 

It was supposed to be Jim's, and Sherlock had snatched it away from him like a petty thief. Nobody stole from Jim, not even Jim's recognized rival, not even Sherlock Holmes.

 

Sherlock would come to know how true the fact is, when Jim had torn down the man and broken him down, and John would return rightfully back to him.

 

That night, Jim dreamt of painting London red, of explosions and blood and deaths, and he reigned like a king of darkness on a throne of skulls. He killed and killed, but for all he did, Sherlock was always there shielding John away from him, and Jim screamed until his throat was sore, but Sherlock just stared at him with ice cold eyes, face so smug that Jim wanted to rip his face apart. But he could never reach the detective.

 

He then tumbled down his throne, and when he looked up, John was there, and Jim just wanted to reach out and touch the man, to hold him against his body as he card his fingers through John's hair. But John shook his head, physically coiling away from Jim, and it's the pity and hatred in John's eyes which did it, which ripped away the feeling of love and security from Jim in an instant.

 

Jim woke up screaming for the first time in years, tears streaking down his face, the heart he never really paid attention to hammering away at his ribcage, reminding him of its presence.

 

He thought: _John, John, John._

 

When the tremors finally subsided, he went out and killed ten of his own men, using only a knife and his bare hands.

 

~*~ 

 

Jim had been so preoccupied in planning out his 'surprise' for Sherlock that he failed to notice that Sherlock had actually caught onto one of his more lucrative smuggling ring. He spent his days now busy doing his job as a secret crime lord, obsessively stalking John's actions and whereabouts, and also plotting and planting the pieces to what would be the most elaborate game he had ever planned for Sherlock Holmes. Jim was determined to make it so that it would not only be Sherlock's most memorable game, but would also be his last one.

 

Every day he watched as John and Sherlock grew even closer with one another, and Sherlock would always bring John along on most of his cases now. Even though sometimes John was genuinely exasperated and annoyed with Sherlock, it seemed that he also had a soft spot for the consulting detective, as he mostly just let it slide. It irked Jim to no end whenever he saw John so caring to Sherlock, and his brain would just scream: _You don't deserve him, no one does, except me!_

 

Imagine his surprise when one of the men from his surveillance team reported to him that John had apparently disappeared, he wasn't with Sherlock, and was nowhere to be found.

 

Jim had never been so frantic in his life. Most of the more hardcore criminals in London all knew that John Watson was off limits, but what if the small fries who didn't know decided that John was an easy victim? Or even worse, what if there were enemies that he had overlooked? Enemies that were powerful enough to take John away from him.

 

Almost all of his men were sent out to search for his John. Their orders were short but precise. Find John Watson, or face deathly consequences. And if John was harmed in any manner, or god forbid-- _lifeless_ , then the men knew that they had think of what to put on their headstones, because death would be the only thing waiting for them.

 

After nearly two hours of search without any results, Jim was getting desperate. This was when Moran burst into the room, announcing that John had been found. The rest of the details came much easier after that. Jim learnt that John narrowly escaped death, and had only been saved because of Sherlock, who swooped in at just the right time like a glorified hero, saving John and his female friend.

 

Jim felt fear and jealousy, then anger. Cold, searing anger burnt through his veins, and instead of the usual burst of irrational urge for violence and bloodshed, his mind was for once crystal clear, as if someone had doused ice water over it. He was actually calm, and this apparently surprised even Moran himself, as the man instinctively took a step back and asked: "Moriarty?"

 

Jim just smiled then, and there must be something in his expression, as Moran shivered perceptibly. Without even a thought to the chaos that would result in China's underground, he ordered for General Chang to be killed, and Jim took great joy in watching her being gunned down via the webcam. The stain of brain matter and the crimson red of blood covered the webcam, and Jim chuckled in pleasure and fascination at the gory sight.

 

Revenge was sweet. And his revenge for Sherlock Holmes would be even sweeter.

 

~*~ 

 

The game, when it finally did begin, was glorious and exciting. Jim had never felt so thrilled before, and he delighted in watching Sherlock dance around in circles. And Jim thought, _Yes, dance, dance like the little puppet that you're supposed to be. And I'll take so much joy in cutting down your strings._

 

Despite his hatred for Sherlock, Jim couldn't help but be in awe at the man's brilliance. It was just so rare to find someone of the same calibre as him, but perhaps it was this similarity that lured them and attracted them to the same person. But in all battles, there would only be one winner, only one person who could obtain the trophy and glory. And Jim wasn't intending to lose.

 

Still, he couldn't help but indulge himself in this game. Playing undercover was pretty fun and Jim so pitied Molly Hooper, so easy to manipulate and use, and so obviously in love with Sherlock and eager to catch his attention, to prove that she could live without Sherlock. Another perfect mannequin to be used.

 

He had only wanted to gain some inside information into John and Sherlock, but the woman was more focused on Sherlock and had no news of John for him. But the little he heard displeased him even more, as it seemed that almost everyone who knew Sherlock thought that John was with him. Even Molly remarked more than once about how loyal and caring John was of Sherlock.

 

The idea of John being in love with the man curdled Jim's blood. It's like a dagger to his heart and a sharp jolt of electricity through his blood, and Jim refused to think that this might be the truth.

 

Because it just cannot be the truth.

 

When Molly told him that she wanted to introduce him to Sherlock, Jim jumped at the opportunity. Oh, how fun would it be for Sherlock to know later that he met Moriarty, but didn't deduced that it was him? It would be such a blow to Sherlock's ego, and Jim so wanted to see Sherlock battered and disappointed in himself.

 

What he didn't counted on was John being there too. He only saw Sherlock at first, so fixed on his prey, that when he rounded the table to stand beside Molly, the sight of John there in flesh and blood nearly stunned him speechless.

 

He was able to maintain his façade, and savoured the eyes of John on him, of John's voice, saying his own name, such a lovely timbre to it, that it just sent trembles down Jim's spine. But he couldn't resist the urge to walk forward towards John. The physical and mental urge was just too strong to ignore. So many years it had been, so many days and so many nights, and just so many dreams, that he just yearned for John, yearned to touch the man, to smile at him, to hug him, to kiss him, to fuck him, to break him apart and crawl into him and just stay there forever and ever, and to put him together and meld him with Jim, always only Jim, so much so that John would never leave ever, ever again.

 

His thoughts were spiralling out of control, being in such close proximity to John, and each step he took brought him even closer to the man.

 

His mind, heart, body, soul--just the entirety of his being-screamed in silence: _John, John, John._

 

He accidentally brushed John when he acted as if he was interested in what Sherlock was doing, and the apologetic smile he gave John was reciprocated with a small quirk of the lips and the softening of the eyes. So brief was their interaction, but the impact on Jim was strong.

 

John's eyes remained the same, even through all those years, and Jim wanted to just lose himself in them, and to never stop staring at them. But there was a plan in place, and Jim forced himself to carry on, acting the bumbling fool, accidentally knocking over the Petri dish. He brushed John again as he leaned down to pick it up. John moved away for him, and all Jim wanted to do was grab him and say: _Stay, stay._ His hands were almost trembling when he surreptitiously placed the slip of paper under the Petri dish.

 

He wanted to run away, not trusting himself to stay any longer in John's proximity, yet he couldn't help but linger. When John looked at him and replied, it was almost like heaven, and it was too much, too much for him to continue being there if he wanted to maintain his act, and he fled. He had only wanted to taunt Sherlock with the number, knowing that the man wouldn't take him seriously. Now though, he almost hoped that John would be just that slightly interested in him and phone him back.

 

The thought itself, of John attracted to him and contacting him, along with his interaction with John made him whimper with need, and the surge of arousal and lust was overwhelming. He stumbled into the men's washroom, almost fumbling with the lock.

 

He was hard, so hard, harder than he had been in years.

 

He thought of John. John's voice, John's eyes, John's smile, John's lips, John's body…His John, just _John, John, John._

 

He came, with a strangled moan, and rode out the almost violent orgasm, with John's name on his lips, whispered out like a reverent prayer.

 

~*~ 

 

The game was on, and Jim thrilled at seeing Sherlock and John run around in circles all over London. He had planned to take John away at the end, and bombs would be planted in 221b to finish off Sherlock once and for all. But he didn't count on Sherlock sending him a message to meet him at the poolside, and Jim couldn't help but go. He already had John with him by then, courtesy of Moran. It was relatively easy to snatch John away, and Jim suspected that John had been too preoccupied with his thoughts to pay any attention to his surroundings. He believed that Sherlock might be the main focus of John's thoughts, and the anger and jealousy which bubbled to the surface made him change his plans at the last moment.

 

He was in his car, making his way to the poolside, with John draped across his lap, unconscious. Jim could finally touch and look to his heart's content. The first touch of his fingertips against John's temple sent a jolt of tremor through his body, igniting his blood in its trail, and Jim felt so complete and alive that he couldn't help but sigh in relief. John stirred, about to wake up, and Jim was so looking forward to gazing into those blue eyes, knowing that Jim would be the first person that John would see. But then John let out a small groan, and whispered: "Sherlock…"

 

Jim was furious. How dare he? How dare Sherlock Holmes take away John's mind and attention even when John was unconscious? It was supposed to be Jim's. It was always Jim's. Who was Sherlock to come waltzing in and taking away Jim's space?

 

It was unacceptable. He wanted to let the man die a horrible death; a bomb was far too merciful, and relatively painless. He wanted Sherlock to be yearning for death before Jim finally finishes him off. To be so filled with despair and agony that he wouldn't even have the strength to live if Jim spared his life. Jim wanted Sherlock--proud, arrogant, confident, self-absorbed Sherlock--to lay broken and a pathetic mess at his feet, and Jim would take the thrill in knowing that he managed to strip Sherlock bare of what made him such a captivating and intriguing force to behold in the first place. It would be glorious, the perfect revenge, if Jim managed to break Sherlock.

 

Staring down at John in his arms, Jim knew that just like the way to him was John, the way to really harm and hurt Sherlock would also be the same. And much as he didn't want to hurt John, he knew that every single day that Sherlock Holmes remained alive, Jim Moriarty would never have a place in John's heart. Jim would have to forcibly rip Sherlock Holmes' imprint from John Watson, like a surgery to remove a malignant tumour, it would have to be done swiftly and ruthlessly. He coudn't afford to let Sherlock influence John any longer, wouldn't stand for Sherlock to be so important to John.

 

So he wrapped John in a bomb vest, and had Moran bring the man to the pool, not willing to reveal himself in front of John, knowing that the only thing that he would see in John's eyes would be anger and hatred. Jim didn't want that, never did want that from John.

 

When Sherlock came, Jim savoured the look of betrayal and shock on his face, and when Sherlock knew that John was the one covered in Semtex, the panicked gleam in his eyes and his blood-drained face was enough of a compensation for how Jim felt when he wrapped John with his own explosive device. It was like ripping his heart out, and he wanted Sherlock to feel the same way. Wanted him to feel as ruined and as conflicted as Jim was ever since he knew that John was with Sherlock.

 

Sherlock had taken John from him. Now Jim was only being courteous and returning the favour.

 

What Jim didn't expect however, was John's willingness to sacrifice himself for Sherlock. The instant John's arms wrapped around his torso to restrain him, Jim felt something akin to heartbreak for the first time in his life. It was also the first time that he thought--maybe he never really did have a chance with John. Maybe John would never be his, and maybe this was his own fault.

 

The urge to flee was compelling. He didn't even want to go through with his plan anymore. What use would it be, if everything he did just further bonded John with Sherlock, and pushed him further away from John?

 

He left, not without warning Sherlock to back off, the words themselves a double meaning. But as soon as he stepped outside, he realized just exactly how pathetic he was being. This wasn't him. He was _Jim Moriarty_ , and he wasn't soft. He certainly wasn't forgiving either.

 

He felt vindictive, and wronged, and for the first time in his life, he wanted to harm John.

 

Because if I can't have him, no one will. He thought.

 

With that, he issued orders to Moran and his snipers, and stalked back towards the pool. He wanted to at least see John for the last time as he killed the man, because if he couldn't have anything else from John, he could at least claim to own John's death. But he didn't count on Sherlock's action, and he certainly wasn't prepared for the explosion as Sherlock actually shot the vest.

 

Moran managed to get him out in time, and as Jim watched the building crumble down from his car, he felt as if a part of him was crumbling and dying at the same time.

 

~*~ 

 

Later, he would find out that both Sherlock and John lived, and Jim would start running, because this time, Sherlock was determined to take the war to him, and he wasn't alone. Someone powerful, more powerful than Sherlock could ever be, was actually onto Jim, and already his many networks were being revealed and destroyed.

 

But before that, Jim would have actually mourned for John. The sorrow he felt during that period, coupled with the elation that surged at the news of John's safety, told Jim one thing:

 

He had never forgotten John.

 

And he suspected that he would never want to.

 

Sherlock's pursuit of him was relentless and fuelled with a passion that Jim had never seen from the detective before. John seemed to be the reason though, as it seemed that Jim's last stint had actually been the final shove needed for them to realize that they loved each other. Jim's sources in London all told him the same thing--that Sherlock and John were now officially together.

 

He hated Sherlock Holmes. Hated the man like he had never hated another person before. With this, Jim found his passion, an all consuming fire and urge to destroy the man.

 

Jim stopped playing with Sherlock. What he planned ceased to be games, but became battlefields instead, an arena designed for one purpose, and that was to destroy and kill Sherlock.

 

Sherlock hunted him alone, and Jim was pleased that he had actually managed to separate both of them. He brought Sherlock on a merry chase across the world, corpses and bloodshed, destruction and chaos trailing after their paths, but everything he did never deterred Sherlock, in fact, the man seemed even more possessed and determined to find Jim after every single failed attempt.

 

Jim could sense that Sherlock was getting closer to him, and knew that a final confrontation between the both of them would be inevitable in the future.

 

Yet, now that Sherlock was away from John, Jim actually started hoping again.

 

Started thinking about John incessantly.

 

He thought of how, if Sherlock died, that he would most probably have a chance with John. John seemed attracted to Sherlock because of his brilliance, there seemed nothing more of the man to be desired for, and Jim was equally brilliant, if not even smarter than Sherlock, so surely John would see that Jim could give him even more excitement and purpose in life? Jim would be able to care for John so tenderly, give him the attention he so deserved but never received from Sherlock. Jim would tell John of their past together, remind him of the fact that he met Jim first, that he _chose to protect Jim first._ Not Sherlock, never Sherlock, so how could John not see that Jim was the perfect person for him? He would be able to see it, would be able to recognize that Jim was his destined soul mate, and that Sherlock was just an obstacle placed by destiny for them to overcome together. It was fate that brought them together first, which brought John to Jim first, so surely it must mean something. Surely John would feel the same way.

 

The more Jim thought about it, the more convinced he was. Without Sherlock, he and John would be together. Sherlock was the source of every anomaly in Jim's plans for John, and was the reason behind everything that pushed John away from Jim. Jim was almost certain that Sherlock must have sensed something, that Sherlock must have _known_ that John was his, and that's why he snatched John away in the very first place.

 

Without Sherlock, everything would have been fine.

 

Without Sherlock, John would have been with Jim.

 

And now, as long as Jim killed Sherlock, without Sherlock, Jim and John would finally be together.

 

Yes, Jim was sure of that.

 

~*~

 

His dreams, from then on, were always of John. Of John and him together, just strolling peacefully down the street, hand in hand. Of both of them, wrapped around the other, falling asleep and waking up at same time. Of John, surrendering completely to Jim, a quivering mess beneath, as he shuddered and screamed out his release. Of Jim, holding John down and just kissing and biting, leaving trails of Jim everywhere.

 

Just everything, was _John, John, John._

 

Every time, he would wake up, aroused and just needing, needing John.

 

But also, after every dream, he would wake up, with the need and lust clawing away at his heart and mind, and he would feel emptiness, a void which just grew even hollower with each passing night.

 

It would be minutes before he realized that he's trembling, curled up and all alone in the dark.

 

~*~

 

The final confrontation, as it turned out, was at Reichenbach Falls.

 

It had been a year since he and Sherlock started this little war of theirs, and Jim never passed a day without thinking and dreaming about John. It felt like he needed the man more than anything in the world, but Jim knew that he had to finish off Sherlock first. Only then could he truly be together with John.

 

John would definitely be delighted and in awe of Jim when he presented Sherlock's death to the doctor, the most romantic and perfect present for the both of them, as it would finally signify the beginning of their relationship. John would not be saddled down by Sherlock, and would finally be able to fully devote himself to Jim.

 

It would be glorious, and Jim couldn't wait for it to happen.

 

Sherlock met him, and for once, both of them were truly alone. Jim without Moran and his backups, and Sherlock without the aid of his brother. Oddly, Sherlock was as impatient as Jim was, as he pulled out a gun immediately.

 

Jim did the exact same thing. After circling one another for a few moments, both of them lunged, and Sherlock tried to tackle Jim down to the floor, but Jim was having none of it.

 

He had to kill Sherlock. Only then will John be freed from the man, could erase Sherlock from John like the virus that he was, so that Jim could claim John.

 

Jim fought back, and for all of Sherlock's advantage in height and strength, Jim had the skills and the experience. He was confident that this would finally be Sherlock's demise.

 

A sharp shout of "Sherlock!" rang through the air, and it sounded so much like John, that Jim couldn't help but instinctively react to it. This moment of hesitation however, gave Sherlock the opening to punch Jim right in his ribs, fracturing them, and Jim staggered a few steps, before feeling his body shift backwards. Hand shooting out, he grabbed onto Sherlock's coat, and the next moment, both of them were falling over the edge.

 

Sherlock grabbed onto the edge of a stone, and held on. But Jim's grip slipped, and his body fell backwards, plummeting down with the pull of gravity.

 

Jim looked up, an almost disbelieving feeling spreading in his chest, and saw that Sherlock was still hanging on. A dark shape appeared over the edge of the waterfall, obscured by sunlight, and then the figure was pulling Sherlock up, steadily.

 

Just as both of them tumbled away from the edge, the person stood, and the sunlight glinted off sandy blonde hair, highlighting them just so, and Jim sharpened his eyes, hungrily taking in the face that he had yearned to see for the past year.

 

The corners of his lips twitched up into a smile, and before Jim plunged into ice cold water to experience the most excruciating pain and finally succumb to the overwhelming darkness, his last thought was:

 

_John. John Watson._

 

**~End Story~**

 


End file.
